The moustache did go. John shaved it off the very next morning. He did not know why. Perhaps it did make him look old.
He was already rinsing out the sink, catching the last cut off hairs with a tissue when he looked up and caught Sherlock's eye in the mirror. For how long had the detective been standing in the door, looking at him? Far from looking found out, Sherlock smiled and winked.
"See? I told you: much better."
December rolled in over London with grey skies and freezing winds. At night the windows shook from the force of the wind. The ventilation grills in the bathroom and kitchen were making spooky, hollow little wails from the icy gusts. Mrs Hudson had someone look at the radiators and they stocked up on fire wood. The hard wooden floors stung underfoot when John made his way to the kitchen in the mornings. He did not mind, though. He did not mind because the flat was full of energy again. It was full of odd experiments, and noise and smell. It was full of Sherlock.
The three flatmates would spend most of the day together. They would have breakfast together, they would potter around the flat busy with different tasks, they would eat, watch telly and talk together. When the Watsons retired to their respective beds, John knew that he would find Sherlock in the kitchen again the next morning.
There was no new case occupying Sherlock's mind. Sometimes someone from the Yard would call and ask a few questions, but those were handled over the phone. Most of the time he would sit glued to his laptop screen and study expensive watches or jewellery or cars, or memorize flight delays and other things that might be important for a fast deduction. Most of the time Hamish would sit next to him - or in some cases on him – while playing with his toys and babbling softly to himself.
It could only last for so long, though. John knew that their period of bliss had come to an end the morning he came out in the kitchen not to find a detective waiting for breakfast, but a detective laying flat on his back on the sofa, surrounded by heaps of paper.
"I'm bored, John", he whined.
It was a mantra he kept repeating at least four times an hour for the next two days. He would stomp around the flat, lifting things up and letting them go again. Huffing and puffing. Refusing to eat, refusing to engage in anything. He would also get sudden bouts of irritation that would spill out over his flatmates.
The first thing to trigger it was Hamish's blinking and singing toys. John had to remove the batteries since that was the only thing that could stop the man from making more noise than the toys. He silently wished that Sherlock himself would evolve removable batteries.
The second thing to trigger the anger was CBBC. Sherlock could not stand the garish colours, the noise and the inane plots.
"Honestly, John! Why do they have to scream all the time!? Do they think imbecile jokes get funnier if they speak really loudly!? Or do they think that all children have a hearing impediment from all those stupid noisy toys!?" Sherlock screamed.
John put up his old TV and blu ray player in the bedroom for Hamish to use.
The third thing was actually something that John could sympathize with. It was the frustration over the minefield their living room floor had become. At several occasions Sherlock walked through the room without watching his feet, resulting in him stepping on various toys and sending him in unwanted directions that caused him to stub toes and smack elbows.
The thing that really sent Sherlock over the edge happened on a Wednesday. John had seen how his friend was nearly imploding with boredom when Sherlock's mobile suddenly chirped. It was sitting across the room from where the man was curled up on the sofa, tugging at his hair. At the little sound he leaped from his sitting position and ran across the room. Unfortunately he managed to put one bare foot on the edge of a piece of Duplo. The sharp plastic cut a clean hole in the sole of his foot, causing him to stumble and cry out in pain. To make matters even worse it was not even an interesting text that had come through, it was just a message from the phone operator.
Three stitches, two painkillers and one bandage later Sherlock came back from his room fully dressed and carrying a small bag. John was crawling around on the floor, trying to tidy up a bit. He had some help from Hamish who carried toys back and forth from his two toy chests while singing. (His favourite film at the moment was Cinderella. In the film they always sang when doing the tidying up, so it made perfect sense that Ham would sing while he tidied up. Logical.) When the detective entered the room both the Watsons looked up, one with a smile on his face – one in utter astonishment.
"A bag? What? Are you going away?" John's insides felt as if he had been walking down the stairs and missed the last step.
Sherlock gave them both a calculating sweep of those icy eyes.
"Yes."
"Why?" John really had not meant for that to sound so desperate, but it did anyway.
"I can't do this right now. I need space. I need to think. I need bloody quiet!" that last word was pressed between gritted teeth. The air was punched out of John.
"Right..." he said and licked his bottom lip, "Right..."
His best friend was donning his coat and scarf and picking up the bag.
"When...When will you be back?"
"When I'm done. Don't bother about dinner."
"And where...where are you going?" damn his voice for being so feeble!
"Away." Sherlock slammed the keys into his pocket and hobbled through the door.
"Bye Schlock!" Hamish called after him. No one answered.
John sat on the floor, surrounded by toys, mutely gaping after the retreating figure of his flatmate. He only shut his mouth when he heard the door slam. He felt numb. Completely numb. They had driven Sherlock from his home. They had not even done anything in particular, they had just been themselves and that had been too much. The old companionship was obviously broken. He would have to find a new flat at once. It was terrifying and heartbreaking and he felt numb.
He was still sitting on the floor, knees under his chin, when mrs Hudson came up ten minutes later.
"Has Sherlock got a new case?" she asked cheerfully, "I saw him leaving with a bag?"
"Mizz Hugs!"
"Hello darling! Oh, look at all those toys. Are they all yours?" she sat down in the chair next to Hamish and accepted the plastic train she was handed. John had still not moved.
"Are you alright, dear?" mrs Hudson looked worried, "Have you had a domestic again?"
"He has left", John whispered, "We were too much. He has left."
"What are you talking about?" mrs Hudson still looked worried, "Of course he hasn't left."
"Mrs Hudson!" John all but screamed and managed to startle the other two people in the room, "He took his bag and practically told me to sod off and then he left!"
Mrs Hudson did a dismissive movement with one hand and accepted a red spaceman with the other.
"He has his funny little ways. He will come back", she said confidently.
"I will have to move out", John muttered as in a trance.
"Don't be silly dear. Do you want me to look after Hamish for a few hours?"
"No. No, thank you. I need the company."
John looked deflated; mrs Hudson could not but help to notice this. She handed Hamish's toys back to the boy and stood.
"Alright, dear. I'll be back with some cake later."
She passed close to her tenant sitting on the floor, and patted him on the shoulder.
"He will come back", she said and sounded very sure.
John spent the remainder of the day in the same numb state. He went through the motions with mrs Hudson and Hamish, but his mind was blank. Well, not completely blank: he keep wondering where Sherlock had gone to. Molly? Lestrade? Mycroft? Was he sleeping under a bridge or at the lab rather than being at home with them? He would probably not check into a hotel or B&B so where was there left to go? A dark though slithered into John's brain. Could Sherlock have gone to that damn Stanley Hopkins? Wonderboy would no doubt be thrilled to let the great detective sleep on the sofa for the rest of the week. Or (horrible thought!) would he let him sleep... John grasped a violent breath and launched for his mobile. It was in the middle of the night but that did not matter much.
"Please Sherlock tell me where you are. I will not harass you anymore if you just tell me where you bloody are. /John"
There. He had done it. Played the needy flatmate. The mother hen. He stared in disgust at his own mobile. Why was it not possible to delete already sent texts? He jumped slightly when that very mobile chirped and lit up.
"The Manor. SH"
And then 38 seconds later:
"Mummy is still at St Barts. SH"
What? Was Sherlock's mother in hospital? John could not stop his doctor self from sending an immediate response, no matter how dismissed he was from Sherlock's life.
"Why? What has happened? What's wrong?"
It took a minute of staring at the tiny screen in the complete darkness before he got a reply.
"The island of St Barts, John, not the hospital. Nothing is wrong. She does not like the damp British autumn. SH"
Oh. Right. Silly him. His first thought ought not to be that a lady in her late sixties was admitted to a local hospital, but that she was sipping daiquiris on an island in the Caribbean. Of course.
"Right. Glad to hear that she is okay."
John rubbed his hand over his face and slumped back on the sofa. This was absurd. He ought to get packing, not sitting here in the middle of the night and engage in a silly text conversation with the flatmate who wanted him gone. He jumped a feet high in the air when his mobile chirped again.
"Why? You have only met her three times. Why would you care? SH"
John groaned. Yes, why would he ever care about the well-being of others?
"It's what people do. It's called 'being humane'."
He regretted it as soon as he sent it. His display lit up again almost at once.
"I see. I suspected that it had something to do with sentiment. SH"
Was he smiling now? It almost felt like it.
"Something like that. BTW you don't need to sign every text when we're in the middle of a conversation."
Chirp!
"I don't. It's the default setting. Saves time. SH"
Chirp!
"Why are we in a conversation right now? It's 3 in the morning. I thought you would be asleep. SH"
John let out a humourless chuckle and pressed the phone to his forehead. Sherlock really was clueless sometimes. What should he answer him? How honest could he be? Very honest, he decided.
"I had a bit of a hard time sleeping. Blame it on the PTSD, the flashbacks of you being dead, my shoulder aching, my best friend breaking up with me and the fact that I'm probably homeless since a few hours. Only that."
He pressed SEND with pursed lips and a determined frown. He had only left out the bit about him being afraid of falling asleep in the same room as Hamish, as he might wake up screaming and traumatize his son for a long time.
It felt as if it took ages for Sherlock to answer. In reality it was three minutes. John was sitting cursing himself and his stupidity when the mobile finally chirped.
"I must confess that I don't know how to decode that message. Who is this best friend? Why would you be homeless? Nothing has happened to mrs Hudson or to 221B or I would have known by now. SH"
John stared at the display in disbelief.
"YOU Sherlock! YOU told me to piss off. Translation: leave the flat."
Of course, the message did not look any different because he hit the SEND button with as much force as he could muster, but he did it anyway. The answer was almost immediate.
"No I did not. SH"
"YES you did."
"Don't be an idiot. I did not tell you to piss off, and I did not tell you to move out. SH"
If he looked back at the exchange earlier that day and recalled what was actually said, Sherlock was right. He had not asked John to move out – but it sure felt like it.
"It felt like you did."
"Sentiment John! It always leads you to the wrong conclusions. If I had asked you to piss off and move out Mycroft would have provided boxes and a van hours ago. Now stop being daft. SH"
He needed to make sure anyway. He absolutely needed to. He could not let himself hope before he was sure.
"So we can stay? Are you sure?"
His throat was so dry. His mouth was so dry. It was hard to swallow. He nearly choked while waiting for a reply.
"Go to bed John. Let go of the mobile, take a painkiller and go to bed. Now. SH"
Who was the mother hen now? John let his head fall back against the back of the sofa.
"Oh God, Sherlock", he whispered to the dark air. Then he went about to follow orders.
When John entered the kitchen the next morning he found Sherlock Holmes sitting by the table, reading a paper and sipping on some coffee.
"Good morning, John", he mumbled without looking up.
John really tried to play it cool, but he failed miserably. In lieu of any other support he grabbed the handle of the fridge door and hung on for dear life.
"I thought you were going away for a while?" he managed.
"I did. And then I came back," Sherlock said and sent lift-the-corners-of-the-mouth-smile-no5 in his direction, "Are you going to fry eggs?"
Automatically John opened the fridge and took out the carton of eggs.
"Hang on ", he said and wrinkled his brow, "It takes at least 80 minutes to go to the manor. You must have spent more than two and a half hours travelling since yesterday afternoon. Was that your quiet retreat?"
"Well," Sherlock said and turned his newspaper page, "I got bored."
The stove clanged and hissed as John put down the frying pan and turned on the gas.
"You were only at the manor for a few hours."
"It was too quiet. It was distracting. And the butler kept nagging me to eat."
John could not help the smile that crept onto his face.
"A sensible man", he said.
"A tiresome man", Sherlock muttered.
"A sensible man."
They ate their breakfast in companionable chaos. John spilled a mug of tea. Hamish sang and used his fork the wrong way around, forcing Sherlock to spoon feed him. Sherlock occupied almost the entire little table with his massive stack of newspapers. It was enough to scare anyone off. No one at the table seemed to mind, though.
It was passed nine o'clock when they finished and cleared the table. Sherlock straightened his jacket and went for the door, reaching for his coat.
"I'm popping down to the Yard for a few hours. I must check if they need my advice on something. They usually do."
John chuckled.
"Don't bully the poor freshmen."
"Bully? I never bully!" Sherlock protested and fastened his scarf, "I only point out the error of their idiotic little ways."
"You scare them to tears."
"I do no such thing. At least not intentionally. I can't help if they've got personal problems. Anyway, I'm going to call on Dimmock and Gregson. They can hardly be called 'freshmen', now can they?"
John chuckled again and picked up Hamish.
"No, probably not", he conceded, "Have fun."
"Bye Schlock!"
The detective gave them a collective wave and disappeared – only to reappear two seconds later.
"Did you forget something?" John asked a bit surprised.
"No, not really..." Sherlock busied himself with his gloves, "John, I think you should call Lestrade. You probably need to 'talk things through' or whatever the popular phrase is. I need the man on occasion and this icy glaring you're doing every time I mention him is most distracting and tiresome. Fix it. Besides, you have precious few people to go down to the pub with. Do not waste one of the few that has an actual brain."
With that little advice on social behaviour, the consulting sociopath waved again and left for work.